CONUNDRUM
by krakasigurdardottir
Summary: He's a spiteful and vengeful man, an outcast, alone in the labyrinth of his anger and remorse. She's a daydreamer lost in a crowded room, trying to navigate the brutality of her daily truth. He's a savage spirit, She's a kind soul. He has nothing to lose, and she has nothing to gain. A conundrum indeed.
1. SILLAGE

**Sillage (n) the scent that lingers in the air, the trail left in the water, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone; the trace of someone's perfume**

* * *

 _On the day Ragnar returned to me I told him of my vision._

 _That I was afraid to lay with him, for I had had a dream, and I had seen if we made love on the next three nights I would bear him a monster. I do not know what made me said the things I said to him that day, I spoke them, but it seems now as if our fate was already sealed._

 _Of course, Ragnar -being Ragnar- chuckled softly, smirked deviously, and teased me to no end about my old hag superstitions, dismissing each and every one of my words. You see? That's the thing about my husband, he never listens to my_ advice _, and he doesn't believe in my "gift"._

 _But right then, neither did I. At least, I didn't want to. In his embrace, all the fears in my mind and all the sorrows in my heart were banished to oblivion, and as his arms surrounded mine, I found peace again._

 _My happiness wasn't meant to last for long anyway._

 _I sensed this pregnancy was different from the moment it began, but Ragnar reassured me -I was overreacting, the child was fine -he told me- and I just felt anguished and strange because he was sure we where expecting a girl this time around, and surely a daughter took more energy from her mother in order to become strong. He has been hoping for a baby girl for a long time now, for even if he never talked about her anymore, I knew he missed his first daughter terribly, and he seemed so happy and joyful with the prospect of it, I did not dare to contradict him._

 _You can imagine his disappointment when the doctor told us waving at the black and white screen it was, without a hint of doubt, a boy. "A big, strong, healthy boy, just like his brothers" he promised looking straightly into my face._

 _But then again, what do the doctors know?_

 _First came the pain… so much pain, and then the unnatural stillness… My baby was so calm back then… but nonetheless I dreaded every doctor appointment, and every time, when they told me all was just fine I plagued them with questions and concerns, I insisted Ragnar endlessly into doing all the tests possibly known. So, when finally the diagnosis was made I'm not sure why it was so much of a shock to me._

 _Osteogenesis Imperfecta._

 _Brittle bones disease._

 _We were absolutely devastated. The new scans showed several fractures in his legs, both of his femurs were crashed, and that was just a small glimpse of all the suffering to come… As we could not determinate the extent of his injuries, and the level of his condition, the specialist sat us down and told us to prepare ourselves for a fatal end before birth, or, being strongly optimistic, on the firsts months of his short and difficult life. From the moment of his arrival to this world our baby would endure incredible pain, and quite possibly, would never be able to walk at all. And_ if, _by some miracle, he survived into adulthood, Terms like "probable dwarfism", "acquired deafness" and "abnormal development" would be part of our vocabulary on a daily basis._

 _At this point, he advised us to seriously consider terminating the pregnancy._

 _It was out of the question for me. I wish I could say the same for Ragnar._

 _We argued day and night, we cried, we fought, we said hurtful and cruel things to each other, he told me our son would die anyway, "what is the point in pretending otherwise?" and if he survived, he told me, it would be much worse, for he would be weak and deformed, a cripple, and everyone would stare and be cruel to him. "What kind of a life could he live?" he asked me with tears on those beloved blue eyes._

 _I understood then, my husband was already grieving. And I hated him for it, I hated him with a passion I never knew I had within me. Because even if what he said was true, I didn't care. That baby was already my son and I loved him just the same._

 _I wanted him._

 _I know, what a selfish bitch I am, am I not? Believe me, I've been told worse._

 _Even to Siggy, my dearest and oldest friend among those who I call family now, I couldn't bear to listen. She told me it would be a mercy to him, but by then I would have rather died than take her advise. I felt my little boy growing inside me. He was alive, and I knew he would be a fighter, a warrior._

 _I have never been as fierce as my father nor yet as brave as my mother, but I stood firm on my determination, and at the end, I won. At least I felt that way at the moment._

 _I knew my husband resented me for taking away his choice on the matter, but I was sur_ e, _with time, his heart would warm and he could find the love to understand me and even be grateful for my stubbornness._

 _He did not._

 _Our son arrived almost one month early_ in _this brutal and vicious world, premature and small, I knew he would need to spend months developing in the safer environment of an incubator, but I craved for a little touch, so the nurse placed the frail creature on my arms as she instructed us to "handle him with care". That sentence would hang above our heads as a Damocles sword for the rest of our life._

 _I neared him to my breast and he opened his eyes, those big and bewitching eyes, and there was so much blue in them even the white surrounding his irises seemed completely cobalt-stained; and yet, they were so similar to Ragnar's I could swear it was my husband giving me a playful grin just before starting sucking with a demanding need. I took a great comfort in that resemblance, and I wanted to show it to Ragnar, a little -yet precious- renewed joy in my heart._

 _I handed him the baby, and in doing so the blankets covering his little body felt down revealing a couple of thin and twisted legs. Ragnar's eyes flew open in surprise, a repressed grimace of pity and disgust showing through his handsome face, he tried to disguise it quickly kissing our baby's head, caressing and folding him again. But as soon as his hands placed a little too much pressure on him a horrendous and heavy "CRACK" resounded through the room._

 _The sound of your baby bones smashing to dust hooks to your brain as a spreading stain of oil. From that moment onwards, our lives became a living hell, I could only listen our little boy screaming in pain and fury as they took him immediately to the first of many surgeries to come. I was powerless, nothing I could do would spear him now. And it was my fault entirely._

" _After all, your prophecy was right " Those were Ragnar's only words to me on the day our son was born, and then he left the room with tears in his blaming eyes._

 _I had never felt more alone._

" _His name is Ivar"- I whispered into the void._

 _From the diaries of Aslaug Völsunga Lothbrok,_

 _September 1985, Stavanger._

* * *

He runs into the mists without fear, after all, the mists are just the passage to her, and so, he knows he doesn't need to be afraid. The Ravens will guide him like they always do. Without hesitation or pain. Without sorrow.

Without shame.

He runs fast and agile as sweat rolls down his skin in thick, salty beads. His strong long legs pushing him far away from everything, he doesn't care about his soared muscles, he pushes harder, always harder, the wild wind blowing against his face, his bare feet feeling the warm sand escaping through his fingers, his heart throbbing inside his chest at full speed. He does not mind. Not a little bit. He is free.

Ivar runs as he always does, in his dreams.

And then, as he always does, he wakes up.

A raspy and wet tongue licking his ear is not like he has imagined it will happen though.

The persistent sound of his alarm punching his sore head as a hammer reminds him it is time to start his morning routine…. Gods, He's getting older, he cannot hold his scotch like he used to. As he silences the fucking iPhone he pats the Great Dean head with parsimony.

"Ok ok! ok, old boy, come here" he throws the stuffed pillows and the sheets away to make space for Odin to jump in. He knows the old man does not allow it usually, but who cares? As he's in the cabin visiting he will do as he pleases.

He searches inside the drawer of the bedside table until he found what he's looking for. He opens the small travel pillbox as he evaluates for a second his pain levels on this cloudy morning. The ache in his knees worsened with all this humidity.

What a great-fuckingtastic day to be in the middle of this nothingness of mountains and lakes.

He grabs a couple of extra ibuprofens and his normal dose of painkillers - the rest of the meds will have to wait till he has something inside his stomach- and swallows them in one gulp with the golden liquid that still remains in the glass. He's sure he's not supposed to mix, but frankly, he does not give a shit.

He tries to relax waiting for the medication to kick in as he lazily lits a cigarette, his bare chest expanding as he breaths the familiar and shooting scent.

Odin looks at him reprobatory with his big yellow eyes. Ivar chuckles and turns his head slightly to the left, mimicking the dog position.

"Now even you judge me, hmm?" The dog just raises his brows as if trying to prove he's not impressed. What a great day indeed.

His gaze stops abruptly upon seeing where Odin's tongue is leaving a trace of slobber on the mattress, his last night reading scattered dangerously close to the dog warm body. He quickly takes the thin black covered books away and he caresses them briefly to his heart, that has stopped abruptly for one second as he has faced the very idea of losing those diaries.

His mother diaries.

He has read them a thousand times… and yet… yet, every time, every fucking time he reads those firsts pages, an iron fist punch him hard in the stomach.

She started writing a mere week after he was born… how hollow and painful was her life in those days to throw herself with such a passion into the white pages of a notebook?

He's not prone to self-pity. There's nothing to win from it anyway, but today he cannot hold a pressuring though from his aching mind.

That he brought her nothing but despair. That she would have been far happier if she had chosen differently.

And yet, she loved him. She truly did.

And he misses her. He truly does.

He wonders if she's resting in peace, knowing she is finally avenged.

Most probably not.

She's either completely gone and therefore not present to have an opinion or worst, she's sad and disappointed at what remains of her family.

He lets out the last puff of sweet smoke as he ends his cigarette.

Enough. It is enough.

With a couple of smooth moves, he pushes himself into a straight position, and then transfer into the sleek black wheelchair by grabbing on to the side of it and shifting his body over using the strength of his arms. The muscles in his upper body the exact opposite of his lower half.

As he goes on with what is needed to be done in the bathroom the soft in-crescendo beats of Apocalyptica's cello fills the air with the last pieces of his new album. Music always soothes him, and half an hour later Ivar emerges from the scalding shower and quickly transfers again into the bed after grabbing his clothes for the day.

He carelessly – as carelessly as this process allows anyway- dresses into an all-black outfit. He feels like it fits the day mood and besides- being lost in the middle of nowhere is no reason to be tatty.

After giving it a quick thought he decides to risk it with the braces. The old man doesn't seem to be awake yet and he can use some good breakfast for once. And as Ivar have experienced recently his old shabby kitchen is not too wheels-friendly. So, KAFO and crutches for the day it seems.

Odin is missing, and he guesses by now the giant dog will have let himself run free through the mount and fields that surround the cabin. He's not particularly worried, after all, the back door is never locked for that same reason. The animal does as he likes for some hours every morning and sometimes even at night, but he always comes back.

As every one of them, Ivar thinks before pushing himself into a stand-up position, he's a wild soul trapped within a mundane cage.

The sun is already high in the grey sky when Floki finally makes an appearance into the kitchen guided by the delicious smell of crackling bacon and sizzling eggs.

"Happy Bi-" He has no time to finish as his godson interrupts him quite rudely.

"Don't mention it" He barks, heavy annoyance sounding like a threat in the suddenly tense atmosphere.

For once the older one seems taken aback by the vivid anger that comes off the bitter young man in front of him. He's used to Ivar's outburst – even when with time he has mastered theme and is less prone to lose his temple in front of others- but is on rare occasions when he finds himself the target of that overflowing fury.

He has no time to elaborate an answer as Ivar shrugs and drops his face into the palm of his hands. His crutches resting on the kitchen island as he leans into a high stool for stability.

"Sorry, really bad morning" The voice comes muffled through his fingers as Ivar slides his hands with a nervous gesture that he tries to conceal by adjusting the strands of hair behind his ears. The young man tries to smile dismissively. "Can we pretend is just another stupid cold day in this stupid cold place?"

The older one nods silently, there's no more explanation needed. He takes a glimpse for a brief second of the three smiling faces frozen forever on the small wooden frame on the shelve. His sweet Helga, his little Borda, and his own young reflexion smiling freely for the camera as they play in the snow.

Some days are harder than others. And that he understood quite well.

The realization struck him like a thunder then, and suddenly he is painfully aware that today is not only a birthday for his godson.

Today marks a dividing line on Ivar's life.

Today he becomes 33 years old, and therefore, from this day onwards, he will have lived more than half of his days without parents in this world.

"Come on, move your lazy ass to the table and let's enjoy whatever you've managed to left unburned by now" He says as he grabs the plates and starts crossing the room to the small circular kitchen table. After a few seconds, he hears a soft sight and the familiar sound of his accurate and slow movement as the metal bars of his braces scratches the wooden floor.

The boy will be alright.

He will have a family again, and he will be ready when the time comes.

And then the old and lonely Floki will be allowed to part in peace, and he will go back to his family knowing he has fulfilled his promises.

yes yes, all will be alright.

Floki will make sure of it.


	2. TROUVAILLE

**E**

Trouvaille (n.) a valuable discovery, or a lucky find; something lovely discovered by chance; a windfall.

* * *

I have been fearing this day for half a year now.

Today is the day.

Today we bring Ivar home.

And deep inside…I'm not sure I can handle it.

"What is done is done, Don't waste your time looking back, you're not going that way" Ragnar told me this morning as we were preparing the small bag to go pick him up at the hospital. I wish I could say his words pierce at me less and less every day, but then, besides an egoistic self-centered woman, I would also be a liar.

At least he's coming with me today. I guess that's as good as it gets. I've been worrying he wouldn't even show up. God knows where he spends what little free time he has nowadays between business travels and expansion plans, not with his family any longer, that's for sure.

Maybe this is a good opportunity to start over...

Maybe when we are all finally living together under the same roof ... Ivar has not had a break in three weeks now, and I'm sure... maybe when we bring him here...

Maybe he will think better of me then. If we can make this work.

Maybe. A pile of maybes. Lately, I'm full of those.

If only Ivar could smile at him for once... it will be so much easier if he wasn't crying always... I can see Ragnar's desperation everytime he tries to hold him, even with the special cushioned blanket they gave us... it is as if only in my arms he's capable of being quiet for a short period of time.

The doctors gave him sedatives to sleep. They gave my baby DRUGS... because... because he cannot sleep without them, he cannot rest.

I..

Does he blame us? Will he? For bringing him into this world? Does he hate me already?

Some days I do.

Things are also difficult and strange at home with the rest of the bunch.

Sigurd has spent all week crying - sucking at his thumbs again even when we've been pass that phase for months now- hooked to my skirt like he fears I'll be leaving for good every night when I sleep over at the pediatric unit. And every morning he calms a little is his nanny's arms when I come back through the door. Bless Thorunn for her patience with him, and with me.

Helga has told me Serk is trotting around asking to each adult disposed to hear his babbling opinion if it's "really necessary" we bring such a crying baby home, and has solemnly declared he will move to his older brother's room if we made him share with this new one as we did the last time.

It would be cute he pretends to remember when we brought Sig home two years ago if it wasn't so heartbreaking to see his barely 4 years old worried face being deadly serious about his intention to not be in the same room as Ivar.

They don't understand yet… not even my sensible and protector Ubbe does.

Every time he accompanies me for a visit he looks through the thick glass intensely with a determination uncommon of his young age, as if, by the mere stubbornness of his stare, Ivar's body would become strong and healthy.

Yesterday he brought one of his stuffed wolfs - Not sure if this one was Akela or Fenrir- with him. I know he leaves them hidden under some pillow or behind the curtains before we left every single time. He has been doing that for weeks with his little pack -whispering commands to "protect him" to whoever he brings-, and replacing it for another one on the next visit.

What have I done to deserve a son like him? I'm not sure yet. He certainly is a blessing in the middle of all this turmoil.

"Mother, when will he get better?" He asked me again on our way home. "when will I be able to touch him? I promise I'll be very careful. With me, he will never break"

I do not know how to explain to a 6 years old boy that it doesn't matter how much he loves his little brother. He will break anyway, and we need to grow used to it. It's meant to happen.

"Don't cry mother" he murmurs in my ear that same night as he comes to my bed "I will always take care of him ok? He will be very happy with me. And when he knows I'm his older brother, he will not need to cry any longer. You'll see".

Since then I 've learned to press a pillow to muffle my sobs whenever my brave little wolf sleeps with me.

Maybe it is my fault, I made them look upon this new baby as if he was a stranger. On those firsts weeks, I didn't want to bring them to the hospital... what for? To see him suffer through pain? His little body cast from waist to toes?

Ragnar insisted they needed to know him.

"To be ready." He told as he gently pushed them into the dark room. Sigurd little face a pure grimace of terror at the sight of all that medical instrument beeping around.

What Ragnar really meant was "To say goodbye."

It doesn't matter any longer, whatever they think they know. They don't. And I NEED to remember that.

Because little frail Ivar...

weak and crying Ivar...

poor Ivar...

Has survived every one of the reconstructive surgeries, every one of those hateful experimental treatments, all the needles, the tubes, the machines...

He has surpassed every low expectation the doctors had on him.

Just as I knew he would.

For he will be the strongest of them all.

His spirit is pure iron on the inside.

He's a survivor.

And so am I.

From the diaries of Aslaug Völsunga Lothbrok.

February 1986, Stavanger.

* * *

Floki should have been here by now.

That useless crazy man had stopped his ridiculous pickup truck abruptly in the middle of the town and practically kicked him out in a matter of seconds, what was originally a quick trip to the supermarket had become an " I forgot Odin's appointment at the vet" and without any further explanations except that it would be "boring, and a complete waste of his time" he has opened Ivar's door and handed him his forearm crutches. The giant beast already pushing to be in the front seat as he launches himself into an upstand position.

"That's right! Out with the cripple, in with the dog" Ivar has grunted not really believing a word of all this tale his godfather was feeding him up with.

Floki was planning something. That much was evident.

He just hopes there is not a cake or candles involved.

Definitely not candles. Please, God, have mercy.

"If you get tired you can go over there" Floki has said weaving nonchalantly at the small coffee shop on the other side of the avenue. "That Colombian coffee they brew is not absolutely rubbish like the others you get around here" and with a quick "have fun" he has disappeared in the middle of a dusty cloud.

Now, just to be clear here. What Ivar needs right now is a bar, not a hipster café plagued with untouched books decorating each wall and plants on every corner making it difficult for him to navigate around them. What, in God's name, has happened to this country? Could no one respect the difference between a library, a coffee shop, and a greenhouse any longer? It seems not even this godforsaken place in the middle of fucking Maine can escape the slavery of trends.

No, he had no intention to put a foot inside that door.

But after half an hour standing against an immaculate wooden fence, his lucky's pack is empty, and he's sure the respectable neighbors behind those curtains will start to gossip about the suspicious stranger armed with dangerous crutches any minute now.

And that's exactly how ten minutes later he finds himself propped against a too-fluffy and too-overstuffed-of-pillows hipster bench, with a hipster espresso and a hipster fancy password to the wifi. Of course, with minimal security guarantees.

Do they not even know about the most basic malware? worms? trojans? He's tempted to hack in just for fun, even from a simple phone, it would take him less than half an hour to get access to the bank account of the small bunch of people spread among the place. Losers.

If he was interested anyway.

He just ignores the half a dozen lost calls from work - He's sure Astrid can manage it a few more days alone - and suist himself to read several blogs he follows. His right hand massaging a particularly painful knot in his tight, today his bad leg - his worst bad leg would be more accurate- is specially stiffened, and he absent-mindedly gives the tangled muscle under the highest strap on his right brace a small rub.

Hmm, interesting, coins market in China still raising... that's good, he supposes with the last upgrade they've accomplished to install into his 0.5 version of "the Seer" it will not be long before the next data rescue payment become hot money into their pockets. It's not yet as effective as "The Great Heathen" used to be, but his new baby will be ready to kick some government-asses in a matter of few months.

He had coded it to hack a very specific portion of redundant protected software - owned by a very specific company too- a few years ago but once its original purpose was fulfilled ... well, who's to tell where's the limit now?

That is, of course, if he does not get too bored and just blow his fucking brains out with a gun one of this days.

hmmm... He guesses Floki was right about the coffee, it isn't too bad.

The tinny bells at the front door chirp a couple of times to announce another wanderer soul in need of caffeine. His eyes catch sight of her... nothing to take him away from his thoughts for more than a brief moment.

It's just a woman. Almost a girl still.

Not even an attractive one.

Ugly circular glasses slipping down her nose, dark blonde hair nested into a messy bun topping her head, big sachel bag hanging loosely from one shoulder. She's dressed in some wasted old jeans that have seen better days and a giant sweater that hides anything that could have resulted in a minimally interesting view.

She looks like an owl – he decides quite proud of himself for the accurate comparison- a very boring one.

She walks in with a distracted air, oblivious to anything but the giant book she's trying to balance on just one hand, a fucking dictionary? Seriously? her eyes are anchored scrupulously on the pages she's reading when her free hand raises to grab something from behind her ear…. A pencil, she bits at it vaguely for a moment before starting writing rather passionately in what he hopes is one of the colourful stickers whose colors can be seen emerging from the borders of that heavy volume of her, he just HATES people who write or mark a book in any way, even if it is, in fact, a dictionary.

She raises her eyes from the book, taking notice finally of her surrounding. Her eyelashes blinking heavily for a tiny moment – owlishly indeed- as she gets adjusted to the dim light, her brows knitted in a frown, a flash of teeth bitting the corner of her mouth nervously now that it is pencil-free. He can glimpse a small trait of freckles under those giant turtle shell glasses.

And then it happens.

She looks at him directly. And it's like a fucking slow-motion scene in a bad movie or something. But no matter how ridiculous he'll think of it afterward. It hits him hard anyway. Like a full speed train in the middle of his chest.

The suffering.

So attractive.

He growls huskily. He cannot help himself.

He drowns in the sadness of those silver waters for what it feels like an eternity. He has known those troubled eyes all his life. Looking back at him from the other side of the mirror. And for once, as beautiful as it is, he cannot seems to enjoy a complete stranger pain. It's just… it seems too much… like she cannot carry it on her back a minute longer….and…

Ivar suddenly founds himself wishing to make her smile. Not the sad half grimace she's putting up-front on a full display. He really has an urgent NEED to see her laugh in joy.

And that alone scares the shit out of him.

She's soo near now, he swears he can smell something earthy and wooden-sweet. Ivar's thoughts flown nostalgically at an image of Idunn and her golden apples he saw once in an exposition back in Sweeden. One of the last travels the six of them made together as a family.

She seems a little transfixed, glued to the floor and seemingly unable to pull away from his gaze. Does she like what she sees?

I bet she does.

Ivar gives her a crooked primal smile while slowly tilting his head. His lips and tongue making a quick greedy grimace. A statement of intent if it ever was one.

When it all happens, it's so precipitate, he cannot react in time.

She stumbles with the corner of the intricately patterned rug in front of Ivar's table, immediately falling to the ground in a rather noisy and cumbersome way, the monstrous dictionary wide open on her lap, all the content of her bag scattered around, a collection of crayons and small crumpled paper balls rolling everywhere around the floor.

He impulsively pulls forward half of his body, trying to…

He's not sure what he's trying to do. What he would be able to do.

In the time it will take to lock his braces, properly stand up, grab his crutches and drag himself over there he's sure the pretty blond waiter behind the bar will have managed to assist her all by himself.

In fact, Apollo-boy over there is already trotting his way to little Idunn on the floor. Shining armor-apron and all, ready to rescue the damsel in distress. Ivar thinks he looks more like a golden retriever than any greek good, but let's not let reality mess up with the bucolic picture in front of him.

As he throws himself back to rest against the wooden bench again he notices her round glasses mere inches from his feet.

His feet. Clustered inside the plastic and metal braces, barely hidden beneath his dark jeans and sturdy leather boots.

His quite obviously useless feet.

"Come on Boneless!" He hisses, that other voice making his blood boil in anger all over again." What are you going to do, hmm?"

He could bend over, holding on to the table with one hand, he's almost sure he would be able to pick them up, and maybe then he can patiently wait for her to notice and handled them to her. A small and gentle gesture, maybe it would be enough.

She locks eyes with him again, and smile embarrassed, shrugging a little as if trying to say she's sorry for all the mess. She even let a nervous laugh escape her lips.

He knows he's pretty fucked up now. There's not coming back from that little sound of hers.

So he does what he best knows how to do. He scares her away.

He raises his chin arrogantly, barks a rude low laugh as he tilts his head fathoming his best disdain mask, he does not need to say anything. The message is clear and loud.

She kneels down and grabs the spectacles in a rush, hurriedly retreating to the farthest corner of the room, the skin on her cheeks burning in shame.

Her beautiful sad eyes revealing the humiliation she feels.

Self-sabotaging is a delicate and ancient art after all.

One Ivar has had many years to master.

* * *

Outside of the coffee shop, looking through the big window, Floki frowns and sights disappointedly.

He kneels down, his aching back protesting already, and scratch Odin's ear as he mumbles some comforting words, more to himself than to his shaggy friend.

"That didn't come out so well hmm? Of course, I should have anticipated it"

The young brat can never behave when a pretty face is involved

"Let's go back to old Ketjill's place, shall we? We can use another bag of that special fodder you like so much, right?"

He looks back inside. Aud has taken refuge as far away from the little bastard as it is humanly possible and Ivar has his back turned at her, but Floki can see he is still throwing glances over his shoulder and scowling in resentment.

"And he can use half an hour more to pull himself together"

He sights again.

Well, nobody said it will be easy.

* * *

He cannot concentrate on the screen of his phone for longer than a few seconds at a time. The numbers on it dissipating as he turns himself again to see her.

She's entrenched behind those books and notes. Hunched over, writing and sketching – that's a guess, after seeing all those colors - and feigning she's not aware of him any longer.

So she can play too.

He tries to subtly reposition himself without dragging too much attention to his lower body, making sure the crutches are neatly tugged on the opposite side of the bench, outside of her view.

When she's sipping at her second Latte he starts to worry Floki will be here any minute now, and then he will make a spectacle of himself no matter what. Could it be possible to flee the café without being noticed? He tries to picture a discrete retreat and needs to gulp down a sarcastic self-loathing laugh.

What is she? And who has dared to hurt her so deeply? Is she really as broken as he felt in that single moment of connection?

And why in hell does he feels like he owes to protect her? Like he REALLY wants to.

That seems like something his big brother will definitely do.

Strangely enough, the thought infuriates him like no other, that she seems such an Ubbe-type, she exudes gentleness and fragility. He despises those weaknesses and has always frowned upon his brother romantic choices and his evident hero-complex, but still... this thing in his chest persist.

Well, it's not like Ubbe would care about what he thinks of her. Not any longer, anyway. They have not talked face to face for over a decade now. And those last years were not precisely a display of brotherhood and confidence.

How can you? Hmm? How can you!? OUR MOTHER!

His thought moves back to his little owl as he notices hasty movement in her table.

It seems he does not need to worry too much about making a scene. After receiving a phone call she stands up at once, worries wrote all over her face, her half drank mug completely forgotten, and just throw everything inside her bag again before running past the door without even sparing a glance at him.

It should not sting, but it does.

A few minutes later, when he's sure she will not come back, he finally straightens his legs in front of him. He turns his torso to find the hidden crutches, and then with his arms firmly grabbing at them he raises up to a vertical position, he bares most of his weight for a moment with just his upper body strength till a click on his KAFO assures him they're blocked.

He has had enough of this place. Fuck the neighbors, he will wait for Floki outside, and if the bald batty man is not here in ten minutes, he will haul his cripple ass up to the hill, and then he will take his car back to the city and leave this stupid little town and its stupid little people for good.

Back to his blasted life.

Yes. That's right.

Back to his nonsensical job. Meaningless after his vengeance.

To his damn penthouse. Empty and cold, with no one to share it with.

To fucking whores. Well, at least they are as reliable as they come.

He tries his best to ignore the looks he immediately gets as he starts dragging his feet around "Enjoy the freakshow". He pays a last cynical glimpse at her empty table. A small notebook spine is stacked beneath the plate with the rests of her drink.

A heartbeat; and then another.

Blood rushes to his ears as he maneuvered there. Like a hound gnawing at his prey. He tenderly takes the small book between his calloused hands.

Almost reverently.

If not for the difference in size and thickness, he could swear it belongs to a different woman.

But no, this still smells like golden apples.

He smiles devilishly.

"I got you"

* * *

that same night he finally gives himself the time to relax a little as he pours another double once Floki is already sleeping.

He feels his stomach is full after a very satisfying Ribs and roasted sweet potatoes special dinner. He has avoided the candles at all cost, and that's enough a victory for him, so he has even allowed his old man to buy them a couple of apple pie slices on their way back to the cabin.

He secures the heavy glass between his legs and rolls over to the front porch. Ok, he has to admit it, a thing they DO have in here is a spectacular nocturnal panoramical sky. He can easily point to Cassiopeia the queen, and to Orion, the hunter.

The evening has passed smoothly enough and his godfather has even apologized for being so late. As usual, Ivar finds himself incapable to hold a grudge against Floki for long, and let it go with a simple "Next time I'll drive".

And then they have giggled and joked about the memories of the only time Floki had tried to drive Ivar's first specially adapted car. He had easily installed the hand's controls back when he was just a teenager, but he was useless when trying to use them. All his instincts were wrongly messed up. And they have almost landed into the Hudson River, Helga running through the old meadows back in their old house in Brooklyn, screaming and yelling, only to find them both almost choking with laughter inside of the car.

He takes a long drink and wonders for how long a man can live only of fading memories.

He swallows and looks at his phone again.

And I promise you, my son...

No. No calls, not from anyone besides Astrid. And she had learned a long time ago to just ignore this day as nothing special.

One day, the whole world would know...

Nothing else. No one else.

And fear...

Not Hvitserk. Not Ubbe.

Ivar the boneless.

He raises his glass to the moon "skål, father. You were a visionary, weren't you?" and finishes it in one last gulp.

He lits a cigarette and finally opens little Idunn's notebook, ready to inspect it in detail, ready to unravel the mystery of this ball of thread as if Ariadne herself had presented it to him.

Words. A bunch of words. Without any sense or order. Some crossed out, some underlined, some of them with extensive definitions below them, and with examples of how to phrase them.

He raises a brow. Is she some kind of writer? maybe a journalist? And then he keeps passing the pages and one thing becomes clear.

Overall, she's an artist.

Scattered and hidden, on the corners, between the lists of words, in every few inches of blank space, there's draw after draw. Sketches of every possible kind. Natural and wild landscapes, human figures, hands, a lot of them, kids playing.

And then... something darker... something mysterious and ... not ugly, but...scary.

He feels like he has been pulled into his own nightmares, and for a second he's not sure if he's awake or still running behind the crows.

Ivar closes the notebook with a loud "ploff", he does not want to see any longer, a strange soreness has rooted in his chest. And then, a single loose page falls between the rims of his chair.

He takes it and turns it around. It's a hasty brisk half-drawn sketch, of a stern frowning face and a couple of blue eyes. And she has colored them so blue, even the white around his irises is stained with it.

He looks up, to Polaris, the northern start, and smile sadly.

"Happy birthday to me"


End file.
